


The Solar Crown

by FingolfinSilme



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Comfort, Jewels, Lionheart dynamic, Love Affair, M/M, Mild Plot, Mild Smut, Nargothrond, Symbolism, Tenderness, anguish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29066142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FingolfinSilme/pseuds/FingolfinSilme
Summary: After a long wait, Finrod is relieved to find that his favourite Captain has returned from his patrol and is ready to serve his King.
Relationships: Edrahil/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7
Collections: 2021 My Slashy Valentine





	The Solar Crown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RaisingCaiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/gifts).



> Dear RaisingCaiin, I hope you enjoy the story!!! Thank you for giving me the occasion to explore this pairing!!! *sends love and cuddles*
> 
> Kindly beta-read by @raccoonlady on Tumblr <3

"" />

In the highest tower of the shiny fortress he has built, the King of Nargothrond sits on a golden throne. If his seat is made of the purest of cold metals, his heart is of purer material, but warm as his sunshine locks.

Finrod looks out of the high window, a kingly Mariana trapped in a moated palace, unable to sleep in the longing that accompanies his dread.

The piercing dawn through the curtain makes the King stir. The mounting shine of sunlight is cruel to his eyes, weary of looking out at the vague horizon beyond his territory. For days, he has not set his gaze on the leather-bound books piled on the table beside him where the Realm’s affairs are indexed with irritating precision.

Ready for another deception, the King leans against the smooth stone windowsill and lazily lets his eyes glaze over the land outside.

Terrible rumours have raked the Kingdom these past days. Stories of sightings of the servants of Angband within the frontiers of the Realm, who preyed on the Eldar and dragged them back to the dark confines of the abominable Northern mountains. To be tortured, and killed.

Finrod had pretended not to mind them when confronted with these questions, trusting that the sentinels posted about the territory were skilled enough to keep out the unwanted spies.

But at night, doubt had grabbed the inside of his mind and clasped his throat until he nearly choked on his own breaths. He had turned compulsively in his soft white sheets, and every time he had opened his eyes, he had been alone. He had been alone and Edrahil had been away in the dangerous wilderness around the Kingdom, late already on the scheduled return of his patrol.

Finrod blinks against the sunlight and the white spots behind his lids spiral in psychedelic circles strangling the King’s hope around the neck.

When he opens his eyes, however, the golden-haired Elf springs from his seat. Leaning over so far that he almost falls, his keen sight and primal instinct rake his whole body with a convulsive shudder of solace.

The King stops shaking, his backbone uncoils and he stands in front of the glass. His solar crown sits untouched on the marble dresser. Fingers wrap around the gemmed edges and he sets the delicate diadem on his brow. It loses its radiance upon contact with Finrod’s hair in the dim room, but he knows that when the Sun will hit the magic metal, it will light up like a million stars.

Waiting with a sudden sober passivity, the King of Nargothrond strokes the large tapestries behind the stable walls, listening for the voice of his beloved among the chatter of the soldiers inside. Surprisingly, his whole countenance is calm; his heart has slowed its Nyabinghi thrumming.

From behind him, a flurry of forest green cape lined with gold. Finrod’s head is slammed against the wall. His vision blurred with the smell of blood and sweat, the King of Nargothrond grapples at the tapestry behind him, sinks into the hands grabbing at his sides, the teeth puncturing the skin of his neck.

“Edrahil, wait,” Finrod breathes into the taller Elf’s neck as he feels himself be lifted up with strong arms.

The Captain pulls back, hands still pressed against the back of his thighs. His adoring gaze pours into the King’s, eyes full of innocent passion. He looks almost childish, despite the black blood and mud matting his fair hair.

Finrod’s tunic is ruffled but the crown still sits with the utmost composure upon his brow.

The King grabs the front of Edhrahil’s uniform and, after glancing around the hallway to make sure no one has seen them, pushes him roughly into the passage leading back up to the tower. He is not ashamed of their intrigue but does not wish to compromise his lover; the jealous are sometimes more cruel than the malicious.

Inside, a moment of rest. Both panting from the climb, the two Elves stand three feet apart, looking at each other with the yearning brought by anxiety and wait in the middle of the King’s private quarters.

There is no order in the room of the lovesick. Every piece of clothing thrown dejected to the alabaster floor testifies not of amorous insurgence against the oppressive nature of fabric but of the unfazed weariness of woe. Unfinished books lay face down all over and the ink of blackened quills has been forgotten, left to dry in imperfect clots.

Yet, when the two Ñoldor enter, it seems a whirlwind of youth has swept the place free of dust. The silence, rather than heavy, becomes intimate and full of expectation.

“I thought you would never come back,” Finrod declared finally, his tone reproachful though he knows it is not Edrahil’s fault.

The Captain stays silent and still, watching the King with an apologetic smirk on his face. “I serve to defend Sovereign and realm,” the Captain says with a modest tilt of his head, his eyes nonetheless still watching Finrod dauntingly.

“Then kneel,” the King commands, repressing the giggle of ease that constricts his chest. The sight of his brilliant knight makes his heart flutter.

Edrahil executes. “Like this, your Majesty?” He asks with a broad grin and large, loving eyes gazing up at the other’s face.

Nodding to display his appreciation, Finrod steps forward to stand in front of his captain - too close for it to be proper. He can feel his heart hammer inside his ears, his legs almost quiver when Edrahil bites his bottom lip with a suggestive movement of his lightly sketched eyebrows. The jewels of the King’s crown reflect in the Captain’s hadalpelagic irises.

“Anything else, Your Majesty?”

Before the King can answer, his hands are on the back of his thighs. Edrahil pulls him closer and he nearly stumbles over him but catches himself by digging his nails into the captain’s scalp, the strands of his hair wrapped around his fingers. Finrod bursts out laughing with the kingly supinity of his stature.

“Yes.” Finrod lets his fingers stray around Edrahil’s face, tracing the cosmetic curve of his nose and the Yosemite cliff of his cheekbones.

Edrahil’s hands move slowly, sliding over his King’s ass. “Anything for my lord,” he says with delectable concern.

“You owe me long-overdue services, Captain.”

Edrahil feigns a blush and bows his head. “Pardon me, Your Majesty, I shall remedy this lack of duty immediately.”

“I know I can always count on your loyalty, Edrahil,” Finrod says, lifting the other’s chin up with a finger.

The Captain's hand moves, slides between the King’s skin and the fabric of his pants.

Finrod unfastens his tunic with careful fingers and shrugs if off so that it pools about his feet.

Reaching up, Edrahil presses soft kisses to the sensitive skin of his belly, which slowly turn into more eager bites, moving downwards until, pulling at the rim of Finrod’s pants, he strips them off, makes the King step over them and discards them to a corner of the room.

“Now, I can properly serve,” he comments, beaming up at Finrod with complete devotion and affection lighting up his face.

Finrod removes his tunic and naked, but for the golden diadem on his brow, the King stands regal over his Captain. The latter sits still on his heels, observing the divine apparition before him, resisting the urge to press his lips to his feet, up to his knees and the manifestation of his virility so as not to avert his eyes from his King’s face.

It is then that the light of dawn hits the chamber’s window panes. Edrahil blinks, blinded by the sublime radiance that suddenly echoes from the King’s crown and reflects on the walls and mirrors.

The light does not subside and Finrod’s smiles down at a flustered Edrahil, the grandeur of his body black against the golden incandescence that surrounds him.

A cloud passes and the Captain stands up to throw his King onto the unmade bed. The crown clatters to the floor and the room fills with the hungry sounds of their love-making.


End file.
